


If You Remember

by gingerbread man (xphantomhive)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: All ships are mentions other than JohnDave, Both happy and sad, Cuties, Gotta let the sick girl write her otp, Heartwarming really, I really need to update though, I'll update when I feel better, I'm going now, I'm sick and so this, M/M, So you just read and hopefully enjoy this, This probably sucks, This was supposed to be short but APPARENTLY I can't do short, i hope people like it, seriously, the scratch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:44:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xphantomhive/pseuds/gingerbread%20man
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you think I'll see you again?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Remember

**Author's Note:**

> I HAVE A REQUEST.
> 
> If you could, listen to "Between the Bars" by Chris Garneau while you read this. Here, I'll even link it for anyone who's interested:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iQeithIy8_4

Your name is DAVE STRIDER, and holy shit is the scratch flashy.

It burns your retinas -- the grotesque amount of colors, flashing, and bright lights. Your stomach turns at the sight of it rising over the horizon. As your ectobiological sister, Rose, had explained, the scratch happens to doomed Sburb sessions such as the one your group of four and the trolls are currently residing in. It wipes the slate clean, resets the game for another bunch of players, while simultaneously killing you all but bringing you back in another life, a different period of time, where you probably won’t remember each other and won’t meet again.

Everyone is crying. Hugging. Saying their goodbyes. You’re a Strider -- you don’t do goodbyes. Today is an exception, you guess, because so far you’ve said “cya” (give or take a few long winded speeches or w/e) to the trolls and Rose and Jade. The only person you haven’t seen around is John, and for risk of ruining your coolkid image you will say the sappiest thing ever; you can’t go without saying goodbye to him. No, seriously. You’ll stop the fucking scratch if you have to, you don’t care, you are going to say goodbye to John-fucking-Egbert no matter what has to go down in order to do so.

Then you find him, curled into a ball, knees to his chest, hood pulled over his face so you see nothing but the glint of his glasses and a few ebony hairs. “Dude,” You puff out, but he doesn’t even look to you. “Dude, are you okay?”

Stupid. Stupid, stupid. Does he look okay? No, not at all, so that had been a moronic and pointless question to ask him. It takes a few minutes until he finally stands (the scratch is much, much closer now) and you can see his electric blue eyes. They burn into yours, etch themselves into your memory, and you hope more than anything that they don’t disappear from its confines. “I don’t look too good, huh?” He asks, sort of doing this laugh that fades into a small, gasping sob. His eyes are red -- he’s been crying.

“I’m just worried that I’ll forget you, and Jade, and Rose, but like, not everything of you guys? Kind of like, one day a black cat will pass me on the street and I’ll be like “oh, hey, I think I used to know someone who had a black cat and a fetish with that color” and then I’ll just burst into tears on the sidewalk. Or I’ll shop for a gun, to protect myself or something stupid, and I’ll just, “one time I knew someone who could shoot so well!” and the clerk will ask, “really?” and I’ll say “yeah,” and then I’ll lose my shit in their store and I’ll have to be escorted out--”

“John! Christ, man, calm the fuck down,” You chide. John snaps his mouth shut, jaw tightening. He hadn’t liked that you’d cut him off, you can tell. His eyes are blazing with the emotion commonly known as rage. Was it the swearing? It was probably the swearing. “You won’t cry for no reason, dude. Shit, you’re worrying about all the wrong things. This is here, this is now, so you should say what you gotta say or you won’t ever get to say it at all. So find somethin’ else to confess to me, or tell me a secret. Ain’t like I’ll remember it in ten minutes, anyway.”

“I’m going to miss you most,” He blurts, and wow, okay, that was definitely something. Gold star for John Egbert, everyone. “It isn’t that I don’t love Jade and Rose, or anything, because I do! They’re great, seriously. But you...I love you...different? I guess different works here. Different. And so I’m going to miss you most.”

You push your shades up, and John gasps. Hey, he won’t know your eyes were red just like you won’t know he has a flaming homo crush on you, so who the hell cares anymore? Not you, that’s who. “That’s called a crush, Mister I’m-Not-A-Homosexual. Feel better you got to admit something?”

He’s just staring at your eyes, taking them in. You let him. “I guess so. Sure. Whatever, I do. What about you? Got anything to tell me other than that you have red eyes? They’re gorgeous, by the way.”

You laugh, hoping it will lighten the mood. It does not. The scratch has inched much closer by this point, and you can see some people getting ready. Rose and Kanaya are holding on to each other, eyes shut tight, and you think the blonde may be singing lightly to the troll. A few trolls are connected at the hip now -- Sollux and Aradia, Gamzee and Tavros, Nepeta and Karkat. “That was a pretty homo-esque thing to say, sir Egbert,” You say. It draws a quiet, broken laugh from John. “I return your feelings, not like ironically or anything. I am completely and unironically in love with you. And there, I admitted it to you bluntly and in English and not irony. Are you proud?”

John cracks a smile. You know it’s forced, but not fake, not entirely -- there’s a slight glimpse of his signature buckteeth. “So proud, Dave,” He responds, and you don’t know if that was a joke or if he’s actually telling you how proud of you he is. “My knight in shining armor.”

You shake your head. “Cheesy.”

He shrugs. The scratch is incredibly bright now, burning your eyes. You step towards the now-silent John, who’s too busy staring at the scratch to pay attention to you. You pull his hood down and he squeaks, batting your hands away. Then you reach and unclasp your red cape, swinging it around his shoulders and pulling the hood over his ebony locks. “Dave?” He asks in a whisper, as if you two are sharing some magnificent secret.

“Shh.” You reply, pressing your finger to his lips. He giggles.

You draw the red cape around his shoulders, pressing your forehead to his. He sighs delicately, standing on his tiptoes to peck your nose. “Love you.” He murmurs under his breath, but you hear it nonetheless.

“Yeah. Love you too, Egbert.”

“Do you think I’ll see you again?”

You don’t know. You don’t know, and that terrifies you. Dave Strider, the King of Irony himself, unflappable and stoic, is terrified that he won’t know a derpy boy with black hair and blue eyes that he’d somehow fallen in love with over the course of years. From when you’d first found the name “ghostyTrickster” on Pesterchum to now. So you respond the best you can.

“Sure do hope so,” You swallow thickly. “John.”

He steps closer, if that’s even possible by this point. His arms wrap tightly around your torso, as though he’s refusing to let you go, to let the scratch take you from him. You suppose that’s how you feel, too, so you wrap your arms around his waist and rest your chin on top of his head after you press a kiss to his temple. “Mind if I take a cliche movie moment?” You ask.

A broken, wavering laugh floats from between his lips. “Y-Yeah, sure.”

“I’m gonna sing to you.”

The chuckle he lets out is watery.

"No one’s stopping you.”

You know the scratch is close, now. Too close. Way, way too close. You can feel the power radiating from it, the power it uses to ruin lives and separate people who love each other more than they love life itself. And you decide that’s why your game had been a doomed one -- too many people loved each other in it. Too much love in one game crashed it, ruined the chances of winning. It sounds stupid when you say it, and you know it isn’t true, but that’s okay.

You breathe in deep. Count to ten. Shut your eyes. And sing.

“Drink up baby, stay up all night,”

“With the things you could do, you won’t, but you might,”

“The potential you’ll be that you’ll never see,”

“The promises you’ll only make,”

You pause between the verses. The power radiating from the scratch is making you queasy, but you try to focus on John’s hand in your own, the smell of his hair and the way it feels against your skin.

“Drink up with me now, forget all about,”

“The pressure of days, do what I say,”

“And I’ll make you okay, drive them away,”

“The image is stuck in your head,”

You’re being lifted from the ground, you note between this verse. Some people are screaming. Some are sobbing. John makes not a sound, and you make no other noises but your delicate, breathy singing.

“People you’ve been before,”

“That you don’t want around anymore,”

“That push, and shove, and won’t bend to your will,”

“I’ll keep them still,”

You know the scratch is here, now. Is this what dying feels like? There isn’t much to feel, you’d say, if you could remember this in the future. You can only feel John’s hand, his hair tickling your chin, and the tears that hit your shirt. You smooth his hair down with one hand, not letting the other go. If you let go, you’ll lose him. You’ll lose him and you aren’t ready to, not just yet.

“Drink up baby, look at the stars,”

“I’ll kiss you again,”

Everything is melting away. You barely feel anything. All that is left, now, is John’s hand in yours. His steady breathing mingling with yours.

“Between the bars.”

Darkness envelops you. The last thing you feel is John’s hand in yours, and the last thing you hear is him mumbling, “I love you, Dave,” and you think the last thing you said was, “I love you too, John.”

But you can’t remember.

 

* * *

 

Your name is JOHN EGBERT, and that was an awful dream.

Of course you get nightmares. You’re used to those. But this didn’t really seem like a nightmare -- more like a memory? But you barely remember what you’d dreamt of, just that it was terrible, but that you felt kind of at peace. You don’t know. You don’t want to know, you assume the things you can’t remember must be just awful, and you probably don’t want to remember them.

You try to get out of bed, but you’re tangled in something. Your blanket? No, that’s Ghostbusters. It’s white and green, not red. You crash to the ground, tangled in this stupid red thing, whatever it is. You blink the sleep away and sit up, untangling yourself from the red thingy -- you still aren’t sure what it is. You stand with it in your hands and hold it out in front of yourself. It’s a cape.

Where on earth had you gotten that? You don’t remember owning a cape. You’d never dressed as something that would require a cape, even though you sometimes cosplay with your friends, much to your disdain. But no, you’d never seen this before. The material is cotton, and it looks handmade.

A memory scratches at the back of your head, but you can’t seem to remember. You shrug and wrap the cape around your shoulders. Your room is freezing, anyway; you can’t seem to get your window closed, and your dad can’t, either. As you ready yourself to crawl back into bed, your computer pings loudly -- a Pesterchum notification? This early in the morning?

TG: ok so i dont know who the fuck you are

TG: but i put on this stupid “random chum” shit

TG: and i got you

TG: your name is dorky

TG: but i swear to god i remember it from somewhere

TG: that shit means something to me i swear it

turntechGodhead -- you remember that. But from where? And that red font, so bright, intense, burning. You think you might have seen it somewhere before, but who would know? Your memory is bad.

GT: yeah, yours...yours too.

GT: have we met before?

TG: dont think so

TG: mister ghosty trickster

GT: don’t insult my name!

GT: it’s cooler than turntech godhead, you dweeb.

TG: excuse me my name is the coolest

TG: my real name is too ok

TG: whats your real name

GT: at least ask me to dinner before i tell you my name, mister godhead.

TG: oh my god your name matches your person

TG: jesus

TG: alright ghosty trickster, the names dave strider

TG: delighted to make your acquaintance

GT: …

GT: i’m john egbert.

GT: pleased to meet you, mister strider.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who weren't interested in listening to music while they read, the song Dave sings is "Between the Bars" by Chris Garneau.
> 
> If this was awful, my apologies. I'm sick and so I wrote. While I should've been trying to sleep, but that's besides the point. I might actually sleep now that this is done?
> 
> Anyway, kudos or comments or not, thanks for reading.


End file.
